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Reply to LucyAdded to the Roswell Slash Archive September 6, 2001
Title: "Interview I"
Fandom: The Forsaken
Status: New, complete.
E-mail address for feedback: firstname.lastname@example.org
Other website: http://members.tripod.ca/~angelspace/Lucy.html
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Sean has to explain his wounds.
Warnings: Not beta'd. Part of a series written in the LJ. Just another little ficlet to pass the time.
He chewed on the cuticle of his left thumb, careful not to drag the skin back too far, not wanting to draw blood. Not while he was in here, anyway; it would be a waste.
He wasn't going to say anything. With any luck, the entire fifty-five minutes would pass without either of them speaking. He was good at this game; the doctor waited for him to crack wide open and spill his guts, and he refused. They kept threatening him - unless he behaved and cooperated and did what they wanted him to, they'd never let him leave.
Well, fuck that. They could keep him here maybe 72 hours. Maybe. And then they'd be gone.
It had already been a day. He'd seen this doctor once, stared at the ripped corner of the brown pleather couch and wondered what sort of psycho had gone dipshit on it. Schizo, probably paranoid. They were the worst.
The doctor was watching him, placid. Receding hairline, glasses, white coat. He'd stepped right out of central casting, a dinner theatre production of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Fingers steepled in front of him. Waiting.
He chewed on the index finger.
"Aren't they feeding you?" It was meant to be a joke, and then again, not.
Startled, Sean looked up, then took the finger out of his mouth. "'Food' seems like an overstatement," he said. He kept tone out of his voice, tried not to fidget, then realized he didn't actually give a fuck whether the doctor read his foot tapping rhythmically against the floor as a deep-seated resentment of his mother not breast-feeding him. He sucked his pinky into his mouth.
"You'd rather have something else?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It isn't like I'm going to starve to death, or anything."
The doctor wrote something down. Probably working on his grocery list, Sean thought. Milk, bread - ex-lax to loosen the stick shoved up his butt. He grinned to himself, then caught the doctor's eye and feigned boredom again.
"Do you think about death a lot?"
It was one of those questions that had no right answer; if he said yes, then he was morbid and psychotic, if he said no, he was living in a dream world. And delusional.
"Every hour of every day," he said, matter-of-fact. "Why, how often do you think about it?"
The doctor peered just over the top of his glasses and ignored the question, eyes glittering as he leaned in for the proverbial, psychological kill. "Are you going to tell me about the scars today?"
He rolled his eyes, sliding the hospital-issue robe's sleeves down a little further, so only his fingers showed. The fucking scars again. Nobody understood.
"How do you feel when you hurt yourself?"
"Hurt," Sean said. "I don't like pain."
"So why do you do it?"
"If you loved someone, and you had to hurt yourself to keep them alive, would you do it?" He didn't expect the doctor to answer him; doctors never answered questions. Still, he persisted. "I mean, someone you really loved. Not a friend, not someone you've known for a while and never particularly liked but just couldn't figure out how to get them the fuck out of your life. I'm talking about someone who means everything to you. Would you do it?"
"Yes," the doctor said, startling him - maybe both of them.
Sean nodded. He chewed on his right thumb, peeling skin back from under the edge of the nail. It hurt, but wasn't deep enough to bleed.
"You think that by hurting yourself you're keeping this person alive?"
"He needs my blood." He arched his back, waited until he heard the pop to sit back. "You're not going to fix me," he added. "Others have tried. You don't understand."
Frowning, the doctor came over to him, looming large. He grasped Sean's arm angrily, wrenching the wet finger away from his mouth, and shoved up the worn cotton sleeve of the robe. Underneath, light pink and dark rose and dark red slashes marred the white skin of his forearm, in various stages of healing.
"I'm not killing myself," he said, staring up through the doctor's glasses, unable to see his eyes for the reflected glare from the window. "You slice down to kill yourself, everyone knows that. I don't want to die; I just need to bleed."
The doctor dropped his arm. "To keep your friend alive."
"Because he's - "
"A vampire," Sean said. He bit his nail, trimming it across neatly with his teeth.
"A vampire," the doctor repeated. He sat down once again, scribbled a few notes on his pad.
They didn't say anything else for the rest of the session.
Continue to Part Two
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